


Ananta

by canis_m



Series: Ananta [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And some sexual intimacy, Asexual Will, Good snek, Hannibal is Not a Cannibal, M/M, Nice snek, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-08-22 22:34:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8303680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canis_m/pseuds/canis_m
Summary: How it might have gone in one of the other worlds, one where Hannibal didn't rubber stamp anything.





	1. Chapter 1

Will had admitted the nightmares, the trouble sleeping, the intrusive thoughts and flashbacks. He'd paced the office for most of the hour. Dr. Lecter was seated, a counterbalance opposite the empty chair meant for Will. Will felt his own meandering thrown into sharp relief, and sat. 

"I liked killing Hobbs," he said. It came out in a whisper. Dr. Lecter seemed neither perturbed nor impressed.

"Of course you did. What was the alternative? To watch him slit the throats of his wife and child, and then turn his blade on us? I wouldn't have liked that."

"I didn't just like _stopping_ him," said Will, insistent in digging his own tomb. "That was necessary, that was just. If it were only that, I wouldn't feel so..."

"So?"

"Guilty," said Will. 

Dr. Lecter leaned back in his chair. He nodded, not with acceptance of the verdict, but consideration. His gaze turned briefly distant before returning to Will.

"You catch these killers by way of empathy. You assume their point of view, their thoughts and feelings, their understanding of what they do. Having done this with Hobbs, you're then obliged to destroy him. In destroying him perhaps for a moment you repudiate the part of yourself that's able to empathize with such a man. You revel in your triumph over it."

Will clung to the arms of the chair. He felt pinned to its frame, unable to move. "It didn't work," he said, hoarse again. "I feel closer now than I did before." 

"Closer to a dead man?"

Will nodded. 

"Perhaps killing isn't the way to lay to rest the part of yourself that takes satisfaction in it."

Prying his hands free, Will lifted them and rubbed his face. "I keep going in circles. Like a snake eating its own tail."

"Will," said Dr. Lecter, "you're not the serpent." Sternly, as if Will had tried his considerable patience. Will looked up at him, startled into meeting his eyes. "You may be uniquely equipped to hunt them, if only at expense to yourself." 

He held Will's gaze with his own, dark and earnest. Will stilled as if to listen with his entire body, with every open pore.

"When most of us approach the act of killing, we suspend our empathy. Not you. You extend it. It's an act of profound compassion, in a way. But you leave yourself no buffer, no cushion between your psyche and the one you must destroy.

"Perhaps each time you're called upon to do this, you'll recover. Like the body, the mind is resilient. But there are limits to resilience." Dr. Lecter pursed his lips. "If you continue, I fear the damage will increase."

Will considered _damage_. It seemed churlish to feel riddled with holes when he was the one who'd fired the gun, but he remembered little of the hours after he'd shot Garret Jacob Hobbs. When memories came, they came in fits and starts, spotty as arterial spray. Between the vivid moments lay the negative space of the mind. He remembered flinching back to himself, over and over, to find Dr. Lecter near him, a steady and unobtrusive presence, each time.

He flexed his hands. "Even if that's true," he said, "even if there's a limit, shouldn't I--" He blinked. "If I can save people. Shouldn't I save as many as I can?"

"Before the collapse of your mind?" Dr. Lecter's face softened. "To ride a horse until he founders is cruelty, Will."

When Will said nothing, only sat staring at him, Dr. Lecter rose. He went to a cabinet across the room and produced from it a bottle of wine and two glasses. He didn't ask if Will wanted a drink. He opened the wine, filled both glasses with white, and offered one to Will. 

"Standard protocol, I assure you," he said.

Will took the glass. He went on blinking with what felt like shell shock. The shock of a turtle at being yanked from its shell. Maybe he was having an out-of-shell experience, too dazed to crawl back inside, even when the man who'd dragged him out had unhanded him. 

In too unsure a voice he asked, "What are you going to tell Jack?" 

Dr. Lecter returned to his chair. "What I'd like to tell him is the truth. That you're suffering from acute stress in the aftermath of a trauma. The symptoms may resolve with time and treatment, or they may persist." He looked straight on at Will. "What would you like me to tell him?"

"I get a say in this?"

"It's your evaluation. Self-assessment can be a powerful tool."

Will wasn't sure he was qualified to self-assess, or that he wanted to try. "You think I shouldn't be in the field."

"I think if the wound in your mind were a wound of the body, no one would send you back into the field," said Dr. Lecter. "Not before you recovered." 

Spoken like a surgeon in the trenches. But it was easier, almost a relief, to think that way--in terms of injury rather than disease. A wound might scar, might ache for years after the fact, but it would heal if he kept it clean. Will turned the glass in his hands.

"Jack won't like it," he said. 

Dr. Lecter sat back, smoothing the drape of his suede jacket. "What Jack Crawford will or won't like is not my concern."

Will smiled, a little crookedly, into the wine.

*

They met again that week at Dr. Lecter's office. The doctor collected two letters from his desk and presented them to Will.

"First, your psychological evaluation. I wanted you to have the opportunity to read it before I deliver it to Agent Crawford. In this there should be no surprises."

Will took the letter as he might have the carcass of a muskrat dragged home by one of the dogs. He skimmed. _Acute stress disorder. Strongly advise against exposure to risk of further trauma, including that incurred by agents in the field. Continued therapy to ameliorate ASD recommended._ Nothing they hadn't talked about. Will passed the dead rat back to Dr. Lecter and wiped his palm on his pants. He frowned at the other sheet of paper.

"What's this?" 

"It's a letter of referral to a colleague." 

So much for no surprises. Will turned away, toward the bookshelves. He stared at the row of endless spines. "You're washing your hands of me."

"No. Quite the opposite. I would encourage you in the strongest possible terms to continue therapy. I'm more than willing to be your therapist, if you prefer. I offer an alternative only because I'd be glad to continue our conversations outside such strictures."

Will turned back to him, brow furrowed. "Strictures. Meaning?"

"Meaning, I'd like to invite you to dinner at my home."

Will stared. Dr. Lecter's expression was cordial and mild, and beyond that, opaque to him. "Dinner," Will said.

"Yes."

"At your place."

"Yes."

"Dinner, as in, as in a date?"

Dr. Lecter made a neutral gesture with his hands. "It would be whatever you choose it to be."

So not _not_ a date. Maybe it would become either a date or not a date if by some miracle Will showed up. "I don't really date," he said. But he sounded uncertain even to himself. There was more to the uncertainty--more warnings to be issued--but to blurt them now seemed presumptuous, even if he'd wanted to. 

Dr. Lecter hardly batted an eye. "Do you eat?" 

"Yeah, I, I eat. On occasion."

That seemed to settle the matter in Dr. Lecter's mind. "Then come to dinner," he said.

*

Alana appeared in the lecture hall as Will's students were filing out. Will glanced warily behind her, but there was no sign of Jack. He eked out a smile as Alana approached the desk. 

"Here to warn me about another ambush?" 

"Chance of ambush later is fair," she said. "Fair to moderate. Not immediate. I just came from Jack's office. He and Hannibal are still going at it."

Will paused in putting away his notes. Dr. Lecter had said he meant to submit the evaluation today. "He's here?"

"I think he wanted to address any questions Jack might have in person."

"And they called you in, what, to referee?"

"Second opinion. Well, first opinion revisited. Hannibal's trying to talk Jack out of going for a third. The discussion was...animated." Alana seemed to think better of saying more. "How are you doing?"

Will made a sound that was neither a cough nor a laugh. "Who doesn't enjoy it when their mental state is a conversation piece?"

Alana's wince eased into a smile. "I'm glad you found someone to talk to, Will. You'll be in good hands."

"He gave me a referral, actually," said Will.

She blinked. "Hannibal did?"

"And invited me to dinner." 

Her eyebrows climbed high enough to take wing. 

Will glanced at her. "Does he--" Her eyebrows were still cleared for takeoff. "Never mind." He watched her struggling gamely not to ask the obvious question. Several questions, probably. "I told him I'd think about it."

After that she seemed to recover herself, though her smile had a watery tinge. "You might factor this into your thinking. He's an incredible chef. If his kitchen were a restaurant? Michelin three stars."

"That good, huh." Will didn't meet her eyes again. He wasn't sure he wanted to see what he might see there. "If I go, I'll make sure to go hungry."

He didn't have office hours after class. He went to his office anyway, empty of defined intention. The room was windowless, barely wide enough to hold his desk and two chairs. The ceiling light cast the space in a bluish tinge, as if the air suffered from cyanosis. 

Will opened his laptop. There was no sense in staying. He could review the files he wanted to review at home. The longer he stayed, the more likely it was that Jack would come barreling in to blare dissatisfaction in his face. It wasn't hard to imagine what Jack had blared at Dr. Lecter. _He's up for a commendation. He saved lives. He could save more. I don't have the luxury to mollycoddle when lives are on the line._

And the response: _What about his life, Jack?_

There was a knock at the frame of the door. Dr. Lecter stood in the doorway, suit and tie and not a single ruffled hair, even after going toe to toe with Jack. The suit was a tailored three-piece, steely blue, more formal than anything Will had seen him wear, either in Minnesota or at their appointments. 

He offered a little smile to Will. "Is this where they hide you?" 

The tone suggested sympathy, and a dim view of any Bureau of Investigation that put Will Graham in a closet. Will's hands curled on the desktop.

"I, ah, mostly work from home," he said. "Other than lectures." When Dr. Lecter lingered in the doorway, Will bobbed his head and gestured to the chair across from the desk, the one usually reserved for trainees impervious enough to brave his lair. "Come on in."

Dr. Lecter seated himself. "I believe I've managed to convince Agent Crawford not to toss you back into the fray, at least for the moment. I'm afraid in his mind the reprieve may be temporary."

"Thanks," said Will. "I think."

"He was, as you predicted, not happy, but he didn't seem taken aback."

"Jack thinks I don't have the stomach for pulling the trigger," said Will. His hands hooked like claws on the edge of the desk.

"When Jack pulls the trigger, I expect he doesn't feel as if he's firing the gun at himself." Dr. Lecter looked down his nose in the general direction of the door. His dim view of the Bureau seemed to extend, at least for the moment, to the head of the BAU. He resettled himself in the chair. "Have you given any thought to my invitation?"

Speaking of stomachs, thought Will. "Alana tells me you're not a bad cook." 

"It's been a hobby for much of my life. At Johns Hopkins I made a habit of testing recipes on the residents and other guinea pigs who stumbled into my path. Dr. Bloom was among them."

Dr. Bloom, the guinea pig. Will wondered what Alana would say to that. It wasn't a pretty thing to wonder.

"Okay," he said. "I'll come to dinner."

Dr. Lecter looked pleased. "Do you have any stipulations for the chef?"

"I'm not picky."

"I like an adventurous palate. Would this weekend be too soon?"

Here was Will's chance to pretend he had something better to do on a Saturday night, like stay home and drink bourbon alone with the dogs, or don his scullion's kerchief and sweep up shed hair. 

"Just tell me when," he said.

*

Dr. Lecter--or maybe it ought to be Hannibal, if they were on dinner terms--opened the door to his house the same way he opened the door to his office. He wore slacks and his fawn-colored sweater, the one that looked as if it would be velvety to touch.

"You found your way without difficulty, I hope," he said. "Please come in."

Will stepped into the foyer and glanced around. "Nice castle," he said.

"It was the closest I could get to one in Baltimore, yes."

Dr. Lecter led him down the hall. Someone had been playing Jenga with antlers and wine bottles on a console table. There were sconces, more horns. Some of the sconces _were_ horns. Will didn't think Dr. Lecter actually hunted big game for sport. "It's a lot of house for one person."

"It is. But I like to entertain. There's plenty of room for guests."

They came to the kitchen, a bright, orderly space that could've doubled as a television studio. Dr. Lecter tied an apron around his waist and returned to his work. 

"Is that what I'm here for?" asked Will. "Entertainment?"

"You are here to be fed," said Dr. Lecter. "Properly."

"You're assuming I don't feed myself properly?"

"Do you?"

Will glanced at the course Dr. Lecter was plating: fresh figs, rounds of goat cheese, a fussy smattering of herbs and greens. Dr. Lecter drizzled curls of honey over the goat cheese. The honey didn't come out of a plastic bottle in the shape of a bear.

"Probably not," Will said. Not even by more ordinary measures. "I do eat a lot of fish."

"That's a start."

"For a psychiatrist you're awfully interested in what I eat."

"I'm interested in what people eat generally," said Dr. Lecter, "and in how what they eat is prepared. Feed the body, feed the mind. I'm also interested in anything that furthers the cause of your well-being. We already know you're sleeping poorly. We can at least see to it you're not eating poorly, besides." He opened a bottle of white wine. "Something to drink?"

Will accepted the wine. He wandered the kitchen with a sense that he was moving through the heart-chambers of some tremendous beast. On one wall hung a painting: a blue-skinned man reclining on the belly of a serpent with many heads. The serpent floated like a coracle on a sea of cloud.

"The god Vishnu," said Dr. Lecter, "and Shesha, king of nagas. It was a gift from my sister after her travels in India. A bit of an in-joke, I'm afraid. There's a serpent on our family crest."

Will withheld comment on the existence of a Lecter family crest. He wondered whether there was a family estate to go with it. A family hunting lodge in some fairytale European forest, lit by sconces made of horn. 

"Older or younger?" he asked. "Your sister."

"Younger. By several years."

Will thought of Alana, of the other fledgling doctors at Johns Hopkins, gathered under a sheltering wing. Or a sheltering hood. Being fed, as Will was about to be.

"She lives in France," continued Dr. Lecter, "but is something of a wanderer. I don't see her as often as I'd like." He removed his apron and unrolled his sleeves. "Do you have family in the area?"

Turning again to the painting, Will studied it. The god Vishnu seemed happy with his boat of giant snake. Will shook his head. "It's just me."

If the kitchen was a studio, the dining room was a stage, dim and curtained, oppressive in its formality. The nearer end of the table was set for two. For a minute Will stood fidgeting, wishing he'd worn his grey jacket, even if the weather didn't call for it.

Dr. Lecter paused, plates in hand. "Or would you prefer to eat in the kitchen?" He surveyed his own stage with a critical eye. "It suits a larger party, but can feel cavernous for two, I understand."

Abashed, Will went to his chair. "No, no. You've got everything set up in here."

Dr. Lecter's mouth pressed on a smile. "None of these are immovable objects."

"No really," said Will. "This is fine." 

He sat. His glance strayed to the centerpiece: a low ceramic bowl that held stones--some fringed with moss--and still water. No flowers, no candles. Just water, moss, and stone. Like a faux Zen garden out of a William-Sonoma catalog. Will wanted to dislike it, but it kept drawing his eye. The bowl was dark, the stones striated, the water clear. The green moss gleamed like a riverside in midsummer. Will tried to remember if he'd told Dr. Lecter that he fished.

Dr. Lecter retrieved the wine from the kitchen and took his seat across from Will. There was a moment's spatial incongruity, and then something slotted into place. It was as if they sat in Dr. Lecter's office, in the mirrored chairs, facing one another. The strangeness of the room receded. 

"Bon appétit," the doctor said.

Will collected some of everything on his fork: fig, honeyed goat cheese, herbs and greens. He lifted the fork to his lips. 

In his mouth the fig was faintly warm, as if just gathered from a sunlit tree. It tasted of summer in a place Will had never been. He could see it: the guarded heart of a garden, the steepled walls. He heard the sound of running water, a fountain or stream. His eyelids shut without impetus from him. 

When they opened he found Dr. Lecter watching, warmly, as if with pleasure too keen for speech.

*

Will stood in the firing range at Quantico, his SIG aimed not at a target but a mass of roiling dark. A buzzing reached his ears as the cloud approached. The mass resolved into a man-shaped swarm of flies. 

Will's arms trembled. He fired. 

The flies scattered. Their shape dissolved, only to reconvene and coalesce. Will fired again, and kept firing, until he'd emptied the magazine. The hum of wings drew closer, louder, grating like a saw on bone. 

The flies condensed again into the shape of a man, as tall as Garret Jacob Hobbs, with pale larval eyes. Will lurched backward. He lost his hold on the empty gun. His foot slipped on the smooth surface of the floor, and he went down. 

Under his hands and knees the floor heaved, then began to ripple. It curved upward. Above the buzz of flies Will heard a vast, transcendent hiss.

Something moved in his peripheral sight, some huge and shadowed undulation. Will found scales under his hands, behind him and above. His heart pounded as he spread his palms over the smooth dark gleaming. He looked up.

The massive hood flared. There was only one head. The great jaws opened to bare great scythe-like fangs, not at Will but at the figure made of flies. The serpent hissed again, and the figure made of flies burst and spattered. 

The buzzing stopped.

A forked tongue flickered. The serpent's hood narrowed as its head curved to form a scaled arch over Will. Its body wound around him in a palisade of coils, encompassing, and tightened in.


	2. Chapter 2

"And the dreams?" asked Dr. Du Maurier.

They sat in her living room, an octagonal space of tall, bright windows. The windows overlooked a stand of pines. The room gave the impression of roundness, like a stone turret.

Will wondered what it was with psychiatrists and castles. He'd been reluctant at first to intrude on her home, even after learning she had no external office, but the living room was calculated to feel like neutral territory. Serene, uneffusive. Irreproachably taupe. 

He shook his head slowly. "It's been a while since I had a bad one. Couple of weeks, at least." He still woke in the night, sometimes, flushed and short of breath, but not because his dreams were nightmares. He'd said nothing to Dr. Du Maurier about their new content, and didn't intend to start. 

"What about physical symptoms? You mentioned headaches, before."

Whatever bug he'd come down with in Minnesota, he'd managed to shake it. "Those are gone, too."

She studied him. "Something else is weighing on your mind."

"Weighing or preying," said Will. He marshaled himself to spit it out. "I don't know what to do about Hannibal."

Dr. Du Maurier regarded him with the reserve of private amusement that at times made Will want to bat it from her face. "Does something need to be done about Hannibal?"

"He's, I think he's--interested." Will's hands shifted on the legs of his pants. "In me."

"Romantically," she said.

A muscle in Will's cheek twitched. He turned to face the window. "I realize that may seem implausible to you."

"Not especially." 

For an instant Will saw himself through her eyes, or rather as she imagined Hannibal might see him: a needy maw in a beguiling shape. A stubbled nestling, waiting for the parent bird with beak agape, so ugly it was cute. Cute if you liked that sort of thing. Will suppressed the urge to swipe feebly at her face again. 

"And you feel something needs to be done because...you don't return the interest?" She paused. "Or because you do?"

"Yes, I think is the answer to that," said Will.

*

August had brought not dog days but a cool spell. The dogs loved it. Even at the height of afternoon they wanted to frisk, instead of sprawling flat on the floor of the porch like so many furry pancakes. Will called them to heel as the Bentley rolled up the drive, before Buster could muster more than a yip. 

Hannibal emerged from the car, dressed in his idea of casual wear: beige slacks, a collared shirt under a sweater vest in sage green. On his feet were some Italian designer's notion of walking shoes--for walking the streets of Milan, maybe, not Will's back forty. On one arm he carried a woven basket, Riding Hood style. Will's mouth twitched.

"There's not really a path," he said. "You know that, right?

Hannibal halted to take stock of himself. He dwelled, if briefly, on the spotless shoes. "Have you had rain?"

"Day before yesterday." Will had on his grubbiest pair of mud shoes, old pants, old henley, and bug spray. He pushed off from the railing of the porch. "It's okay. If we hit a bad patch, I'll do the dirty work."

The dogs milled, ears up and tails waving at the unfamiliar visitor. Will clucked them into order for introductions. "Everybody, this is Hannibal. Hannibal, meet everybody."

Inclining his head to the pack, Hannibal said he was pleased to meet them. Will covered a smile and shooed all but Winston into the house. He glanced at Hannibal.

"You want a drink or anything before we go?"

"Perhaps when we come back."

They set off for the trees. Will tried to contain his bemusement at Hannibal's presence on his property. It wasn't as if he couldn't trace the chronology: dinner had led to lunch, had led to coffee. Coffee and the promise of brunch had led to the Baltimore farmer's market, where Will had eyed the wild mushrooms sideways and said you could get those cheaper in the woods by his house. 

He hadn't meant to dangle it as bait--at least he didn't think he had, not at the time--but Hannibal had come alight with interest. The invitation issued itself. Now here they were, going hunting. Winston trotted ahead, glancing back now and again to keep tabs on the laggard humans.

"I'd wondered if you meant to bring them all with us," Hannibal said. "Your pack."

"All of them is a lot. If you want to actually look for mushrooms, instead of wayward dogs."

"Were they all rescues?"

"One way or another." Will nodded at Winston. "This guy was loose on the road, trailing a broken rope. Like he'd been tied out. Filthy, hungry. It was the night I got back from Minnesota."

"No one would know it to look at him now," said Hannibal, approving. 

"Winston's a good boy. Really good. Doesn't run off, doesn't cause trouble."

"Does he also locate chanterelles?"

"I wouldn't put it past him."

Will led the way to the spot he remembered, a stand of mature oaks on the hillside above the creek. He might've thought Hannibal would seem incongruous in the woods--ill-adapted, inclined to get tangled in shrubbery--but Hannibal carried himself among the trees as he did in his house in Baltimore, or the halls of the BAU. He spotted the first mushrooms before Will did, bright flutes of yellow-orange sprouting at the base of an oak. 

Hannibal rolled up his sleeves. He drew a knife from his basket and dropped to a crouch. Will scarcely saw the blade glint, and then Hannibal was scooping up the golden chanterelle, cupping it in hand. His hair had fallen loose over his brow. He smiled up at Will, a modest Boy Scout smile of success.

The coils inside Will's ribs constricted. They didn't ease until Hannibal turned to the remaining chanterelles, which he began to coax from their nests of leaf mold, stem by stem. 

Will knew what this was. Never mind that he hadn't felt it in a long time, and never mind that lust had no part of it. Longing did. For a minute he stood dumbly planted, watching Hannibal tuck mushrooms into the basket as Winston came to sniff. Then he drew out his own pocketknife and went to circle another tree.

By mutual agreement they left the smallest of the chanterelles to grow bigger--same as Will would've done with undersized trout--and continued toward the creek. The understory gave way to grasses. The water in the creek was high.

"Do you fish here?" asked Hannibal.

"It's one of the reasons I bought the house," said Will. "Used to be too dirty for it. There was an old treatment plant upstream, not up to code. Bad runoff. After that got fixed, a consortium of landowners cleaned it up. Department of Inland Fisheries stocks it."

"And the fish is good to eat?"

"It hasn't killed me yet."

They followed the course of the creek for maybe half a mile, wending among the hardwoods. Hannibal found hen-of-the-woods-- _maitake,_ he called it--perched at the base of another oak. After that, more chanterelles. When the basket was full, they turned for home.

"Jack also asked me to go mushroom hunting," said Hannibal as they walked. "Or rather, to hunt a mushroom farmer. I didn't enjoy it as well as this." Seeing Will's frown, he added, "The case of the bodies in the state park, covered in fungi."

Will nearly lost his footing. He felt like his own dogs, shut up in the house while Winston got to go on an adventure. Even if the adventure wasn't the fun kind. Even if he knew it was in his interest to stay home. "Nobody's said boo to me about it."

"Then Jack has kept his word. I'm glad."

"So instead he drags you in?" Disquiet roiled in Will's stomach. He should've seen it coming--should've known, after Minnesota, that Jack would want to keep Hannibal on retainer. All the more so if he couldn't keep Will. "Are you glad about that? Are you okay with it?"

Hannibal tipped his head, phlegmatic. "In this case, my background in medicine was of some use. The mushroom farmer was inducing diabetic coma in his victims. Now Jack knows to look for a pharmacist, or someone with similar access to prescriptions. I expect they'll find him soon." He stepped over a fallen branch. "It's unlikely I'll be of such help each time, but I'd like to do what I can, if Jack continues to ask."

"He wants you to be the new me," said Will.

"A poor stopgap."

"More like an upgrade."

"Will," said Hannibal, with such dismay that Will waved a retracting hand. "Perhaps I should ask if you are okay with it, if I continue to consult for Jack."

"It's none of my business what work you choose to do," said Will. "But yeah, I'm okay with it." He scuffled through a mound of leaf mold, dragging his shoes. "I just…don't want you to start courting nightmares, too."

Hannibal's face softened. "On my better days I have enough empathy to pass as human, if only just. Nothing like yours. My mind won't connect as yours can." 

"In other words, you have a functional buffer." 

"More than most, I think."

"Well," said Will, "if you need somebody to talk to." He stuffed his hands into his pockets, conscious of absurdity. Hannibal only murmured thanks, and drifted near enough to Will on the absent path that their shoulders nearly brushed.

When they came to the house, Will said, "Hold up." Hannibal halted with one foot on the front porch step. He kept still as Will shuffled up to his side. "Got cockleburs on your nice shirt."

The burs clung to the back of Hannibal's sweater, small and persistent. Will wiped his fingers on his pants before plucking each one free, trying not to snag the fabric. Hannibal watched over his shoulder with half-lidded eyes.

"You have a practiced hand."

"Seven dogs." Will flicked the last of the cockleburs away. "All right, you're clear." 

They stepped onto the porch. From inside the house rose a hopeful whine. "I need to take them out for a real run," said Will. "They're due for it."

"Of course. I was hoping to cook for you," said Hannibal, angling the basket of mushrooms. "But I wouldn't like to overstay my welcome."

"It's not overstaying. If you're willing to brave my kitchen. It may not be up to snuff." 

"Do you have a pot? A spoon?" Hannibal's expression grew teasing in earnest. "Butter?"

"Probably all three." Will opened the door to let loose the furry flood. He gestured at the interior of the house. "Help yourself to a drink. There's whiskey and gin. Glasses in the kitchen cabinet."

"Thank you."

Will blinked as Winston sprang up the porch steps and followed Hannibal inside. The rest of the dogs continued to mill and snort until Will set off with them around the side of the house. 

They waded a good distance into the field. The dogs chased and porpoised, startling grasshoppers into flight. Before long an eddy in the grass caught their attention. Buster started to investigate, nose first, then shied. 

Will glimpsed a curve of sleek and winding black. The scales bore a looping tracery of yellow. _L. getulta,_ immune to venom, eater of rattlesnakes and vermin alike. A mild-mannered constrictor. The fellow you wanted under the porch when the rats skittered by. 

Will clucked to the dogs. They retreated except for Buster, whose snout poked forward again. 

"Leave it," said Will, in sharp command, and Buster backed off with a whine. 

The kingsnake retreated into the grass. Will watched it taper and vanish, then looked back toward the house. 

By daylight it was only a house, the field just a field, but Hannibal's Bentley crouched in the driveway like a watchful Doberman. Will could picture Hannibal in the kitchen, opening drawers and cupboards, laying his hands on pot and spoon. Could picture himself coming back to the house with Hannibal in it, safer than he'd ever been.

His eyes stung as if from salt spray in a headwind. His chest grew tight again, the way it had in the woods. 

He turned and walked on.

*

By the time Will and the dogs came back, the kitchen smelled like heaven, if heaven grew out of damp earth in the woods. Hannibal had set the table. He poured wine into glasses and dished heaps of risotto into bowls. Will leaned over the bowl at his place, breathing wafts of steam. 

"Don't you need some kind of fancy rice for this?" he asked.

"Arborio," said Hannibal. "Or carnaroli." The only rice in Will's cupboard was Uncle Ben's. "I may have had a few ingredients in my car. The rice, the Parmigiano-Reggiano--"

Will tapped his glass of Barolo with one silent finger.

"--and the wine, yes."

"Sorry my pantry's so bare."

"No need to apologize. You had the essentials." Hannibal raised his glass. "To a successful hunt."

Will raised his glass in return before taking a bite. Whatever word of appreciation he'd meant to say melted to incoherence on his tongue. He made a muffled noise.

"'S good," he managed at last, after a swallow of wine. "Is there meat in this?"

"None. Do you miss it?"

Will shook his head. "Even if this weren't delicious, I grew up lucky to get dinner at all some nights. Forget about having meat on the table."

Hannibal looked satisfied with his work. "Mushrooms are rich in umami. Particularly the wild varieties. There's also some evidence they support immune response. Have you ever had morels?"

"Maybe."

Hannibal's head moved in a raptorial tilt. "Do they grow in your woods as well?"

"I'm not disclosing anything," said Will. He hid a smile behind his wine. "Come back next spring and find out."

"I believe I will." For a little while they ate in warm silence. "Would it be too intrusive to ask how things have gone with Dr. Du Maurier?"

"You can ask. It's been okay. More okay than I expected." Will raised the napkin to his mouth. "She reminded me of you at first, for about thirty seconds. But it's just affect. You're not really that alike."

"No?"

She's not in love with me, came the thought. The presumption of it made Will's head swim—the presumption and the sheer unlikelihood--but he knew it to be true. He grasped for another gulp of wine. "She's…less nurturing," he said.

"We neither of us have children."

"Not biologically, no. She's not much of a den mother."

"And I am?" Hannibal seemed amused. "Would that make you the pack leader?"

"Or a cub scout," said Will. "Does it have to be one or the other?"

"People rarely are, I find," said Hannibal. "Only one thing or the other. Will you continue to see her?"

"We have one more appointment scheduled. After that, I don't know." Will swirled his wine. "You think I should?"

"I think you should if you feel it would be helpful." 

"I'd rather just talk with you."

"I'm no longer in a position to offer you the objectivity of a therapist," said Hannibal, rearranging his napkin. "If indeed I ever was, which I've begun to doubt."

Will clung to the stem of the glass. "Objectivity's not what I want," he said. 

Their eyes met across the table. What do you want, then, asked Hannibal's gaze. Only tell me, and if it's in my power you will have it. Will's heart strained at the bars of his ribs. But Hannibal didn't say it, and then he looked down, lashes lowered as if against a bout of shyness, releasing Will from any compulsion to reply.

*

"You've been spending a good deal of time with Hannibal lately," said Dr. Du Maurier.

Will's hands failed to fold or settle on his lap. He nodded.

"You find the experience of his attention difficult to resist, yet you feel you should resist it. Why do you feel you should resist?"

"I haven't come clean," said Will. His throat felt as if a barb were embedded in it. "I keep stringing him along. He doesn't deserve that. I need to pull the hook out and let him go."

"Catch and release?"

"Catch and release."

"And if he should fling himself back into your boat?"

Will smiled without relish or humor. "The magical fish that grants wishes? I haven't seen it yet."

Dr. Du Maurier kept her own counsel on the matter of magic fish. "It sounds as if you do know what to do about Hannibal. The question is whether you will do it."

Will grimaced, acknowledging the hit. "The bridge from intention to action is a rope bridge over a wide gorge," he said. "Dangling and precarious." 

She smiled with tolerance, not without sympathy. "Since it seems this is to be our last session, I wish you luck in traversing it."

On his way out she saw him to the door. In the hall her heels ticked like the hand of a watch that kept perfect time. Will paused with his fingers on the doorknob. 

"He told me you were his psychiatrist. For a while. Said he respected your judgment more than any other colleague's."

Dr. Du Maurier seemed to accept this as her due. Her tiny smile remained in place. "When I chose to retire from my practice, Hannibal respected that. You can imagine my surprise when he wrote asking me to make an exception and accept a patient."

The front step was a dais of sunlight. Will blinked in the confusion of brightness as he stepped outside. He squinted backward, trying to make out her face amid the glare. "Didn't mean to interrupt your retirement." 

"You haven't," she told him, not ungently. She wished him goodbye and closed the door.


	3. Chapter 3

The Perseids were ending. Will had thought he and Hannibal might glimpse one or two, sitting out behind the house that floated like a dark boat on a dark sea. No light to obstruct them but the fire. But a net of cloud hung on the sky, catching anything that fell.

They ate trout Will had cooked in foil packets on the grill, drank barrel-aged saison Hannibal had brewed at home. It tasted more like Chardonnay than beer. Will switched to bourbon after dinner, drinking from his flask. He needed it: not liquid courage, but liquid self-reproach.

When he couldn't put off confession any longer--when the bone of it lodged in his throat, demanding to be hawked free--Will took a long, burning swig. It went down like a live ember. He'd had a speech planned, had rehearsed it, but what came out wasn't that. It was halting, terse with fear. 

Hannibal listened in silence, sitting with arms draped around his knees. His eyes reflected firelight in insulated flickers. He didn't seem surprised, or even fazed, but he rarely did.

Will balled his hands to keep from mangling the blanket underneath them. "Feels like I owe you an apology."

"You don't," said Hannibal at once.

Will's fingers tightened. "I never meant to lead you on. But that's what I did. I knew you were assuming and I let you assume. I let things go on like...like we were going to be together."

Something moved in Hannibal's face. The flinch of a needle on a seismograph, presaging the tremor before the quake. 

Will rattled on, headlong down the track. "You probably figured, 'Oh, he's shy. First time batting for the other team, too nervous to really take a swing at it. Just ease him along and everything'll be _fine.'_ "

"Will--"

"It's not that I can't do it. I've done it. I just don't really want it. Not for myself." He'd let that go on too long before, too, with others: skating by on a glaze of desire that wasn't his own. It worked, right up until it didn't. "People want to be wanted. They want their wants reciprocated, in degree as much as kind. When they think you've just been going through the motions, it hits them like--"

"Betrayal."

Will took another shaky swig of bourbon. He nodded. 

Hannibal gave a slow blink. "Thank you for telling me," he said. "Before I made an overture that placed you in a difficult position."

Will stared at him. The unfazed look was back in place, as if it had never slipped. "Is that all?"

"Did you expect me to be deterred?" Hannibal didn't move, but tension roped in his shoulders. "Or is this a dismissal?" He turned his gaze on Will. "Are you asking for an end?" 

"No, but." Will looked away. "If you want one I won't blame you."

"You assume I expected our relationship to take a sexual turn. That I want it to."

"I've seen the way you look at me," said Will. "You don't _not_ want it."

Hannibal leaned back, aiming scrutiny at the clouds. "Much as I'd like to claim I had no assumptions, perhaps I did. But I've never been a slave to Eros. Do you think me incapable of knowing my priorities? Or of seeing to my own needs?"

Will shook his head. "I think you've never had to 'see to your own needs' for any longer than you wanted to. All you'd have to do is crook your finger and somebody'd bite."

For a time Hannibal said nothing, only turned to face the fire. A log shifted and fell, dispersing sparks. Hannibal reached for the flask of bourbon. Will let him have it. Hannibal held it under his nose as if it were a glass of wine, breathing the scent before he drank.

"I've been in love once in my life, before now," he said. "It wasn't unrequited, but the relationship never became sexual."

When Will had recovered from the lurch, he said, "Should I ask why not?"

"Among other reasons, she loved her husband." 

"Oh."

"Since then, it's true, I haven't wanted for partners. But I haven't cared for anyone in that way, let alone known feeling that surpassed it, until you." 

Hannibal turned again to Will. His eyes were black as sky. 

"I don't want to stop seeing you, Will. No matter what we do, or don't do. I want to see you always."

Will's throat worked. "You're really okay with--if I don't--" 

Hannibal's hand found his where it gripped the blanket and covered it. "One pleasure out of many, that's all. It's not a necessity." 

Will gazed at him, unable to speak. Unable to say aloud: and I am?

"You are."

Their eyes held. Will folded first, turning and slumping into Hannibal, pitching up against his chest like a wave onto shore. Hannibal drew a sharp breath through his nose. His arms came around Will, warmly clasping. Will mussed his face in the wool of Hannibal's sweater, his body gone limp with relief.

He turned his cheek to one side. "I'm not asking you to give it up. There're things I don't mind doing, if you don't mind..."

"Managing my expectations?"

"Yeah." Will raised his chin. "With anything else, if you do it just because it makes the other person happy, nobody bats an eye. Like going to the opera. Or going camping." He pictured Hannibal in one of his three-piece suits trying to duck into a two-person tent. Trying to sear foie gras over a camp stove. That was unfair, probably. Hannibal hadn't actually tried to wear a suit in the woods. "Pretty sure sex would be easier on me than camping would be on you."

Hannibal's arms tightened. He laid his face to Will's hair. "I would go camping with you, Will."

"See? You're sweet."

Drawing back only his head, like a long-necked bird, Hannibal peered about them. His glance alluded to the blanket, the remnants of their primitive dinner, the fire in the firepit, burning low. "Are we not practically camping already?" 

Will startled himself with a laugh. "Close. We get to sleep in a bed, though." He stopped, breath arrested. "If you...if you want to stay."

"I want to stay," Hannibal said. 

*

The dogs lay in wait at the door to the mudroom, eyes accusing. Will let the whole pack out for a last chance to do business, then whistled them in. With the dogs accounted for, he went to the front room to find Hannibal coming in from the porch. In his hand was a small leather kit, the kind that might hold toiletries. 

Will eyed it. "I'd offer you a spare toothbrush, but I guess you're set."

"I happened to have a few things in my car."

Will didn't ask if the _things_ included condoms. "Optimist," he said.

He dug through a dresser drawer, found a t-shirt and a pair of pajama bottoms that were a little roomy on him. He handed them to Hannibal, who took them and made for the bathroom in the hall.

Will went upstairs. He came back down in boxers and a t-shirt. Hannibal was sitting on the bed, toward the foot of it, engaged in what looked like wordless conversation with Winston. Will's t-shirt hugged the span of his shoulders. His bare feet protruded from the plaid flannel pants.

A pool of pleasure welled in Will's belly at the sight of him. It began to seem real that he could have this--Hannibal here with him, in his house, in his bed--without having to barter for it. A reckless lightness carried him forward. 

He stopped in front of Hannibal's knees. Hannibal gazed up at him, warm and attentive, but made no move. Will reached for him, laying both hands on his hair, brushing it back from his face and brow. The gel in it made the strands stiff on the surface, but beneath they were soft and fine. Will sank his fingers deeper.

"You can touch me," he said. "You don't have to be gingerly about it."

Hannibal's hands came to rest on his hips, as if to initiate a dance. "Will you guide me? I don't want to misstep."

"I'll tell you if you cross a line. I don't think I can give you a list of things I'll never want to do. Not sure I can tell you what all I want to do, either." His hands dropped to Hannibal's shoulders; his own shoulders sagged. "Sorry. That's a lot of...nebulosity."

"Nebulas are celestial nurseries," said Hannibal gravely. "Vibrant. Clouds of potential in the blankness of space."

"Cosmic dustballs," said Will, but he was smiling again. 

"For tonight, then. May I share your bed? May I hold you?" 

Will's throat closed. "Both of those. Not just tonight."

He drew away from Hannibal to get the light and crawl between the sheets, under the old cotton blanket, leaving room on the side nearer the door. Hannibal circled the bed. He moved with pronounced slowness, as if to allow a halt to be called at any moment, between one breath and the next. 

Will felt as if his heart were beating under his chin. Then Hannibal was there, under the covers with him, settling on his side next to Will in the dark. His legs stretched almost to the foot of the bed. 

His hand found Will's forearm where it lay and slid over it. He stroked the underside with his thumb, caressing the skin of Will's wrist. The touch was both intimate and undemanding. Will exhaled a faint sound. He closed his eyes. 

"May I ask about your experience?" Hannibal asked.

Will's eyes reopened. "There's not much to tell. Women. Not very many. Not very many as in, you could count them on one hand. They all wanted more than I did. I let myself borrow their wanting." He turned his arm to align it more closely with Hannibal's. "I could do that with you. But I didn't think you'd want me to."

"I would rather you be true to your own desires, yes. Whatever they might be." Hannibal's hand appraised the shape of Will's. "Do you touch yourself?"

"Once in a while. Everything's operational." Their fingers met. "What about your experience?"

"It's been, in a word, varied." 

"Uh-huh. But you've never been a slave to Eros."

"More of a friendly colleague," said Hannibal. "Will it distress you if I'm aroused in your presence?"

"Will it distress you if I'm not?" 

"No. I want you to have whatever you want of me. As much as you want. And nothing you don't."

Will clutched at his hand. "Can I—" He broke off. He shifted nearer. Hannibal lifted the blanket and opened his arm. Will folded himself into the embrace, burrowing closer until their heads rested on the same pillow. The swell of happiness threatened to overwhelm him. 

"This is what I want," he said thickly, "for now. This is good. It's been a while." It had been longer than he cared to say. And longer than he wanted to admit since he'd done laundry. He laughed a little, almost without sound. "Sorry I didn't think to wash the sheets."

Hannibal merely turned his nose to the pillowcase. "It smells of you," he said, in a voice that left no doubt of his approval. 

*

Will was at home, grading papers with a chaser of bourbon, when his phone rang. He saw Hannibal's number and picked up. "Hey."

"Will," said Hannibal, then nothing else. His voice sounded tense, attenuated. Will's smile slipped.

"Where are you?"

"Reston, Virginia."

Will set his jaw. He hoped it wasn't kids again, but it probably was, if Hannibal was calling from the scene. "Did you drive?"

A pause, as if Hannibal found it difficult to recall. He never had trouble recalling anything. "I rode with Jack."

"I'll pick you up," said Will. "We can get your car later. I'll be there in thirty."

The neighborhood in Reston was well-to-do, all manicured family homes on cul-de-sacs and winding lanes. Will navigated the Volvo past police and FBI vehicles. Hannibal stood waiting on the sidewalk, away from the flock of agents, looking isolate and displaced. Will pulled up to the curb, and Hannibal climbed in. 

"Is Jack still in there?" Will asked.

"With the others, yes."

Hannibal said little on the drive back to Wolf Trap, only watched the fields unfurl as they left murder and suburbia behind. When they reached Will's house, he went as far as the porch steps and sat, heavily, as if unwilling to bring what he carried with him through the door.

Will laid a hand on his shoulder, then went inside. He reemerged with a tumbler of whiskey and Winston at his heels. He put the tumbler into Hannibal's hand. Winston lay down by Hannibal's feet.

"I'll leave you alone if you want," Will said.

"Please don't," said Hannibal. Awareness of the whiskey seemed to come to him belatedly. He took a sip, then patted Winston's head. "It may be my defenses are less ample than I'd thought."

"What did you see?"

Hannibal was silent for a time. "The corpse of a child," he said at last, "in the fireplace. Arranged in the fetal position. Blackened and charred. The smell--" He exhaled harshly, pressing fingers to the bridge of his nose. "Is persistent."

Will nudged Winston with his toe, coaxing him to budge, and interposed himself between Hannibal's knees, one step lower. Almost before Will had settled, Hannibal's arms slid around his middle to cling. He buried his nose in Will's hair. 

Will rubbed his thumb over Hannibal's knuckles. It was uncanny to know himself seen as something clean, something Hannibal might grasp at to supplant the charnel scent of death. But he wasn't going to argue. He thought about what Hannibal would do if their positions were reversed. 

"Did you eat anything before you went?"

Hannibal shook his head without lifting his face. "It didn't occur to me," he said, muffled. "Even if it had, there was no time."

"Could you eat?" When Hannibal was slow to respond, Will said, "I could make shrimp and grits. Got some good rock shrimp. Wild caught. Guy out of Norfolk sells them out of the back of his truck."

At that Hannibal's head lifted. "Let me make it for you."

"Hannibal. I'm from Louisiana. I know how to make shrimp and grits." 

"I believe you. But it would help me to be in the kitchen. To busy my hands."

He sounded more certain, more like himself. Will sank against his shoulder, covering the hands on his midriff with his own. "All right. Just this once."

*

Over dinner Hannibal was able to discuss the case with something like equanimity. He related what Beverly had said about the bullet in the mother's skull. 

"She would have gone into convulsions," he said.

"And Connor couldn't handle it. He'd been prepped to make it quick, not watch her suffer."

"Prepped by whom?" 

Will shook his head, tapping his thumb on the tabletop. "The pack leader?"

"Or a den mother," Hannibal said.

Will's thumb stilled. He set his spoon on the edge of his bowl. He began to see the shape of her: a dim and distorted outline in loco parentis. _Loco_ in the Spanish sense. He leaned back in his chair. 

"Couldn't raise a brood of her own, so she steals ducklings from other nests. She wants her stolen ducklings to love her. She can't stand the thought of them having anyone in their life except her." 

Hannibal looked as if he'd swallowed inferior wine. "Not a den mother. A perversion of one."

Will picked up the final shrimp from his bowl. He bit it in two and chewed. "Little close to home, there, Doctor?"

"There but for the grace of God," Hannibal said. 

After dinner Hannibal stepped into the living room and called Jack to relay the theory. Will listened as he cleared the table. Hannibal returned to the kitchen, and together they washed and dried the dishes, side by side at the sink. 

"Maybe we're going about this the wrong way," said Will.

Hannibal displayed his sudsy hands. "Would you prefer that I dry?" 

Will huffed. "I mean maybe I should call Jack. Tell him next time bring me along for the ride. Right now he's getting two consultants for the price of one. Doesn't seem fair."

Hannibal made no immediate reply, but his brow creased. He lowered his hands to the sink and rinsed them slowly. Will could almost see him trying to quash the urge to protect. He knew the urge; he harbored its fierce twin.

"Your symptoms of acute stress have subsided," said Hannibal at last, as if reasoning aloud to himself. "If you were a patient under my care, I'd be satisfied with your recovery. Jack would welcome you back with open arms." He paused. "Are you certain it's what you want?"

"No, I'm not. I'm glad you got me away from it when you did. I needed the time. But nobody should be going out there alone."

Hannibal looked down at him, soft-eyed. "Better to go together, then? To share the load?"

"Maybe," said Will. It was what pack members did, he thought: go together. "I could be wrong. Could be worth a shot, anyway."

Raising one hand, Hannibal touched Will's hair and stroked it back, around the curl of his ear. "You are rarely wrong," he said.

*

They walked the dogs at twilight, skirting the edges of the field. Buster found and blithely rolled in deer poop. When they got back to the house, Will had to give him a bath, and then needed to bathe himself, and somehow Hannibal ended up in the shower, too, despite having avoided most of the contamination.

It was the first time Will had seen him naked. He let himself look. Hannibal saw him looking, and soon his cock--bigger than Will's, uncut--began to fill. It was endearing, somehow, in its pert disregard for Hannibal's observance of boundaries. 

Will reached for the conditioner and squeezed a dollop into his palm. He sidled behind Hannibal, maneuvering Hannibal's front out of the water's stream. His own spine took the heat of the spray. Part of him wanted to see Hannibal's face, but only part, and he wasn't used to wrangling a dick other than his own. The angle from the front was foreign. 

He set his chin on Hannibal's shoulder and reached around. He closed his hand. 

Hannibal went still. "There's no need--" 

"Hush up," said Will. The slide of the foreskin was distracting in its unfamiliarity. He palmed up and down slowly, getting a feel. 

"Will--" Strained now. "I don't expect--"

"I know you don't. I want to do this." He started to stroke. "You want me to stop?" 

Hannibal lowered his head, then shook it. He raised one arm to brace it flat against the tile wall. Droplets studded his arms and shoulders, beading like sweat. Tremors played across his skin. He leaned as a straining draft horse leans into the yoke. 

He was beautiful like that, the way a powerful animal putting itself to work was beautiful. At the same time Will felt a pang at the burden he'd set, the imposition of the hitch.

It didn't get him hard, any of it, but a heated tenderness assailed him. "You want to show me how you like it?" he murmured. "I'm the rookie here."

Breathing open-mouthed, Hannibal turned his head. "Truly, you've never?"

"Not with anyone else."

It was true, and also the right thing to say, because Hannibal went glassy-eyed and licked his lips. He didn't cover Will's hand with his--as if he wanted no part of dictating tempo, or adulterating any design Will might have--but he reached back to clutch Will's flank and pull him close.

Something twisted in Will's chest. Hannibal would be able to feel that he wasn't hard. Will figured he could get there, if he spared the effort and attention--if he touched himself like he did when he was alone--but he didn't want the distraction. He didn't want Hannibal to think about the lack, either, so he pressed up to Hannibal and leaned to his ear.

"I want to do it the way you like it." Then, because rising inflection seemed to do the trick, "Show me?"

Hannibal gave a low groan and shook his head. "You don't need help." In a minute he added, contrarily, "A little--around the frenulum." He hissed. "That's it."

"Did you just say 'frenulum'?" Will fingered again. "Okay, Doctor. You want me to manipulate your scrotum while I'm at it?" The noise Hannibal made verged on the piteous. Will smiled into his shoulder. "Sorry. I shouldn't poke fun."

"You should, ah--you should tease me as much as you like." Hannibal's head drooped again. He was panting.

"Do you tease yourself? When you're on your own. What do you think about?"

"You," said Hannibal. "I think about you. Since that day in Minnesota. You were all over blood. You looked so lost. I wanted to take you home and bathe you with my own hands. Wash you until the water ran clear again." He arched and thrust into Will's hand. "I've thought of having you in my office. Against the ladder, in the chair. In my house, in my kitchen--"

"Jesus, Hannibal."

"It was before I knew you didn't want it." He stiffened, teeth flashing. "I'm sorry, Will."

His whole body went taut, and white spurts streaked the tile wall. The volume was daunting. Will let go of Hannibal's spent cock to rub up and down his belly and sides, trying to soothe. 

"Hey. Hannibal. It's okay." Will nuzzled his shoulder. "You don't need to be sorry. It's okay if you think about me."

Unsteady on his feet, Hannibal turned. He cupped Will's head between his hands. "May I please," he said, ragged. 

Even if Will hadn't liked kissing, he couldn't have said no, not to that, but he did like it. Wanted it. In this moment, badly. He nodded, tilted his head, parted his lips, did all the things he knew to say _yes_ short of grabbing Hannibal and hauling him in.

Hannibal's mouth covered his. Will groped blindly behind himself for the tap. The shower fell silent except for spattering drips. Hannibal caught and pressed him to the wall, holding him there in the cloud of steam, kissing him over and over.

*

Before bed Will made Kentucky coffee with bourbon and cream. He brought a mug to Hannibal where he sat in the living room, in the reading chair, and folded himself to the floor by Hannibal's feet. The dogs who weren't already asleep padded over to flank him, Buster among them. Will ruffled the damp fur around his neck. 

"You smell like a wet rug, buddy."

"It's an improvement," Hannibal said.

Will turned to look up at him. The tension in the line of his shoulders wasn't easy to discern, but it was there. More tension than there ought to be in someone who'd lately scrawled the wall of Will's shower with an impressive John Hancock of spunk. Will set his coffee down on the floor. 

"Did I screw up?" He tried to sound more frank than scared. "Should I not have done it?"

Hannibal gave him a look. "If you must know, I haven't come so hard in weeks."

That took the wind out of Will's fear, as it was probably meant to. "But?"

"There's no but. It's merely more difficult than I'd anticipated," said Hannibal. "The management."

"Of expectations."

"Yes. Not to reciprocate in kind."

Will put a hand, hesitant, on the top of Hannibal's foot. "If you're worried I don't get anything out of it, don't be. I get something out of it. I'm not just...tolerating."

The set of Hannibal's face began to ease. He sat back in the chair, nursing his coffee. "I'm familiar with deriving enjoyment that differs from that of other participants in the same activity. Each person's pleasure is unique."

Snob, thought Will fondly. His fingers followed one of the stripes down the leg of Hannibal's pants. They differed from Will's own mainly in not being plaid. The fabric was just as soft, just as good to touch. "I know where you're coming from, though."

"Where am I coming from?"

"You don't want me doing all the work. Not every time. You want to take care of me. You want to see me make sex faces and know you're responsible."

Hannibal relaxed, then, enough to let amused rue show on his face. "Reductive," he said. "But not inaccurate." He touched the side of Will's head, his hair. He rubbed one of the curls between fingers and thumb. "I would like to make you feel, yes, if I could."

"You do," said Will, startled into rawness. "You make me feel all the time."

Hannibal gazed down at him. He set his coffee aside, then lowered himself slowly to the floor, keeping Will cradled between his legs.

"I'm afraid I may have strong-armed you in the shower. When I asked to kiss you."

"No, you get carte blanche on that."

"A blank check?" His hands were on Will's hair again, both of them, on it and sliding into it. Gentle with cautious greed. "You may regret it. You may be surprised at the sum."

"My account can handle it," said Will.

He let Hannibal do the leaning in. Their mouths met. Hannibal deepened the kiss: his tongue slid between Will's lips, welcome and slick. His hand cupped the nape of Will's neck. He fingered there, catching at wetness where the curls were still damp. Will made a quiet sound. Hannibal paused, breath warm on Will's open mouth, only to begin again.

Will's mind grew hazy. He wasn't sure how long they sat there, only kissing, before Hannibal drew back, gazing at him with heavy-lidded eyes. 

"Would you do something for me? I left a small tin in the kitchen, on the table."

Will bumped their foreheads together. "You want me to go fetch?"

"Would you?"

Will did. When he came back from the kitchen, Hannibal hadn't moved, so Will sat down exactly where he'd been, between Hannibal's legs. He proffered the tin.

"Open it," Hannibal said.

Raising his eyebrows, Will lifted the lid. Inside the tin he found tissue paper, and within that a layer of almond-shaped sweets, rounded diamonds covered in smooth white icing. They lay in the tin like overlapping scales. 

"After dinner mints? Is this a hint about my breath?"

"Not mints," said Hannibal. "Calissons. Originally made in Provence. A confection of ground almonds and candied fruits."

Will didn't need to ask if they were homemade. He picked one from the tin and nibbled at the tip. The taste was like marzipan with a glaze of oranges. He felt Hannibal's eyes on him as he put the rest of the sweet in his mouth. 

"Are you having any?"

"I made them for you," said Hannibal, holding his gaze.

Will had left the tin on his lap. He picked it up and placed it in Hannibal's hands. Then he shifted, scooting sideways to lean his shoulder against Hannibal's, as if Hannibal were a comfortable couch. He glanced at the tin, then at Hannibal, expectant.

"I'll have another," he said.

Hannibal brought a calisson to Will's lips and held it there. The same as Will might have done with a biscuit when he was training--or tormenting--one of the dogs. Will gave him a look, to make sure they both knew what they were doing, before tilting his chin to eat from Hannibal's hand.

Hannibal fed him in portions, doling bit by bit. Making Will wait between bites. Making him lift his chin again to solicit. Will flushed, but kept eating. The look on Hannibal's face wasn't even smug, only absorbed, almost rapt. As if he just wanted to put _something_ in Will, to give him something, and French confection would do as well as his dick. 

Will took the last bite from between Hannibal's fingers, watched Hannibal watch him swallow it down. He cocked an eyebrow at the tin again. 

"You want to take this to the bed?" 

Hannibal's lips parted, then closed. He looked torn. 

"I don't mind crumbs," said Will. "It's my bed." He thumbed at Hannibal's moue. "I swear I'm not trying to torture you."

"Difficult boy," murmured Hannibal, but it didn't sound like a complaint.

*

The stream had broadened, widening as the mouth of a river does as it nears the sea. Its waters rippled and murmured. Will could sense the gulf beyond it, a boundless space interspersed with nebulae and buoys of light. Aside from the water's murmur, the night was hushed. Now and then a star came loose to slide down the arc of the sky. 

Will lay on the riverbank on a bed of coils, braced and surrounded. His clothes were gone. That came as no surprise, but he had to smile. He and Hannibal might go back on the water soon, in any case.

Hannibal's voice spoke from above. "When Žilvinas saw Eglė for the first time, bathing, he refused to return her clothing until she agreed to become his bride. I've always taken it to mean that when he saw her, he knew the truth of her, and was so struck to the heart that he couldn't bear to see her shrouded."

Will reached to run his hand over the scaled sides that encircled him. He remembered the feeling of being a turtle unshelled. "Still not very polite." 

"A lapse in courtesy," agreed Hannibal.

Will traced the golden lacing on the smooth black scales. The markings extended upward, all the way to the serpent's head, ringing like a crown. 

"I guess he made it up to her," he said.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally for the Love is Love event c/o hannigramacethetic. With all my love to the nice Hannibals of other authors, and many thanks to damnslippyplanet and coloredink. 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr: unicornmagic.tumblr.com


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